will you go out with me?

My name's Log. Hello there, and thanks for taking the time. I'm single. Can you believe that? Four years in a relationship, then it's over. Single again. Looking for love again. Crawling from pillar to post, taking any scraps of affection that are offered. Like a stray dog. More like a piece of shit from the stray dog's arse. It's not living, is it? Not really.

This is what I look like. I drew it last week. I drew it myself so you can see I am artistic. I could stop awake all night and draw you while you sleep, if you like. Then I'd have a picture of you to touch after you threw a fiver on the pillow and walked out on me, you loveless bastard.

| That's me on the left. As you can see I'm very upset because you have been shaded in and have a big question mark over your face. Unless you're not shaded in, and you're black. I don't even mind if you are black, I'm that desperate. We'd have to do something about the question mark though.

How would I describe myself? Well, I'm pretty tall. I used to tell everyone I was six foot one. When I say I told everyone, I don't mean everyone. I mean, I didn't serve formal notice and take out a fucking advert in the papers. I just slipped it into conversation, nice and natural like.

For instance;
Someone Else : "Do you like the new Coldplay album?"
Me : "Speaking as a six foot one male, I haven't heard it yet."

Then I measured myself and found out that I wasn't even six foot nothing. I was five foot eleven and a half, and a bit. And a bit? What the fuck good is a bit? No good at all, quite evidently. Which is why he left me. Left me to run around the Stourbridge ring road looking for burly men.

The girl who sits opposite me at work drew this. I think it makes me look a bit like a Space Captain George Michael. If I look a bit cross in the picture, it's perhaps because I'm dwelling on the universe of pain that my life has become. In a sense, I suppose, I am a Space Captain of my own infinite despair. Each week I find another uncharted sector of abject misery, and fly around in it for an hour. My claim to fame is that I was the number one search engine result for the phrase "Jesus Lives" in 1998. And I met Dale Winton outside the King's Arms on Poland Street. He didn't stop for long, he said it was too busy. I knew I'd driven him away, but I didn't make a scene. "That's right, Dale. You just waltz off like this never happened. Get in the big car and get your fat celebrity cock sucked by some dutch... some dutch... fucking... osteopath, I don't know. Just think of me when you're at the top. That's all I ask." That's what I would have said if I'd had another pint of the booze. Sometimes I think I should give up the booze, but it tastes so good. |

As far as sex is concerned, I'll do anything you ask so long as you let me have a glass of water every now and then.

| This is a real photo of me. I am sat in a big fucking ladybird. I look pissed off here mainly because I wanted to be in the driving seat, even though I know the ladybird cannot really be steered. That's like my whole frigging life, that is. My friend is so happy. I don't think he realises how everything turns to shit. How life is a giant arsehole and when we die we'll all end up in it, just a pair of feet sticking out of a giant arsehole in the sky that you can only see when you're dead. And that's your lot.

So, in summary; please go out with me. You don't have to put out or anything, I'll just have a wank while you're taking a shit. I'll be asleep before you've wiped your arse.

please please email me on this address with a drawing of what your love looks like,
and if your picture is the best i will go on a date with you
so_cold@disappointment.com

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